Patience and Protection
by Midnight Caller
Summary: Nick makes a bet with Sara that stirs up her feelings for Grissom.


"Patience & Protection" By Midnight Caller  
  
Disclaimer: I t'nod nwo eseht sretcarahc ron od I naem yna tnemegnirfni, etirwyopc ro esiwrehto. Os t'nod eus em. Uoy wonk, gnitirw sdrawkcab yllaer skrow htob sevlah fo ruoy niarb, yllaicepse eht laitaps sisylana yarg rettam trap. Wehw. Yrt ti emitemos. Eeeehw!  
  
Ooof. Anyone else have a headache?  
  
Rating: PG-13/R  
  
Summary: Good God, this one's long! But I didn't want to split it up. Nick makes a bet with Sara that stirs up her feelings for Grissom.  
  
This actually started off as one of those notorious DevanieChallenges, wherein I was somehow supposed to write about a DVD of the movie "Ronin," a roll of toilet paper, a dog toy, a tube of mascara, and a reference to an early 1900s political leader. Well, this doesn't have any of those things. I started to write and . . . well, sorry, Dev, I guess I'll have to include that stuff in the next fic. This was also originally entitled "Dough Boy." But that's just silly.  
  
Big thank you to Meg for beta-ing this long-ass story, and for some of the most helpful feedback I've ever gotten. You rock Meg, like Led Zeppelin, '79.  
  
Archive: Just tell me where.  
  
Feedback: But of course!  
  
****  
  
Nick leaned against the cold metal locker, a mischievous little grin creeping across his lips. "I just don't think you have the guts, Sara."  
  
She had tried to ignore him for the past five minutes, but he seemed intent on irritating her. Finally, she gave in. Her eyes met his and impossibly, his grin widened. Narrowing her eyes, she stared him down. "Is that a challenge?"  
  
He leaned in closer. "Yeah, it is."  
  
She backed off a bit, suddenly realizing how into her personal space he was, and tried to distract herself by playing around with the contents of her locker. "I don't have to prove anything to you."  
  
Nick didn't have to reply. His arrogant, raised eyebrow did all the talking.  
  
"I can be aggressive. I can get a date if I want to."  
  
"Uh-huh."  
  
She readjusted the book on her shelf for the hundredth time. "I have nothing to prove to you, Stokes."  
  
Throwing his head back, he made a clucking sound with his tongue. "Fifty bucks."  
  
"What?"  
  
"You heard me. Fifty bucks says you can't ask someone out for a date."  
  
She rolled her eyes and re-hung her coveralls on a hook, practically trying to hide her whole body in the locker. "Oh, please, I thought you said this was a challenge. . .."  
  
"Someone from CSI."  
  
Her keys dropped from her hand and landed on the floor with a loud CLANK. Nick smiled again.  
  
Clearing her throat, she tried to keep calm. "You're kidding."  
  
He crossed his arms. "Uh-uh."  
  
"Forget it."  
  
"One-fifty."  
  
"Dream on, Nicky-boy."  
  
"Two hundred."  
  
"Whatever."  
  
"Two-fifty."  
  
"Nick-"  
  
"Two-fifty, Sidle. Two-fifty that you'll soon owe me because you don't have the guts."  
  
She bit her lip and stared at him, almost seeing the smoke come out of his ears as the wheels worked behind his eyes. Sighing loudly, she slammed the locker door shut and smiled as wide as she could. "Fine."  
  
His eyes lit up as he smirked once more. "Now we decide who."  
  
"What?"  
  
Pulling a quarter out of his pocket, he replied, "You can't just ask anyone. Sanders would go for it before you even got done talking, and I know for a fact that David wouldn't have a problem with it, either. So we'll flip on who you'll ask."  
  
"Well, that doesn't seem fair. Only two choices?"  
  
"You're not chickening out, are you?"  
  
She breathed out through her nose, flaring her nostrils. "Flip it."  
  
"Heads. . ." He raised an eyebrow. ". . .Warrick."  
  
Another sigh. "Alright."  
  
"Tails. . . Grissom." He waggled his eyebrows.  
  
All she could do was shake her head to try and hide the blood that quickly rushed through every capillary in her face, coloring her skin a deep shade of crimson. "FLIP it, Nick."  
  
*****  
  
Okay, okay, exhale. Now inhale. Exhale. Repeat.  
  
The halls of CSI were suddenly half as wide and twice as stuffy, and Sara had to concentrate on each step to keep from bumping into what seemed like crowds of people. She turned her head, just enough to see Nick's figure twenty paces behind her, his grin bright enough to provide energy to a small planet. She hated him so much. He nodded his head to indicate something, and she turned around in just enough time to avoid running into someone in a lab jacket.  
  
The metal of the doorframe was painted a dark gray color to match the lighter shade on the walls of the lab. The coolness of the frame seeped through her shirt as she leaned into it, trying as hard as possible to convince herself that paying two-hundred and fifty dollars to Nick Stokes and admitting she was a wuss wasn't nearly as excruciating as standing here in this very doorway, knowing what she had to do.  
  
Maybe they wouldn't even notice she was there, and somehow the next eight hours left of shift would suddenly fly by and they'd leave and she'd never have to go through with any of it. Damn Nick. Damn. Him.  
  
Warrick's form was slumped over the light table as he quietly examined what looked like a ripped shirt. He was so fascinating to watch as his face contorted in various ways whenever he saw something interesting. One of his hands reached back to scratch a well-contoured shoulder blade, and she bit her lip anxiously.  
  
Suddenly, Warrick smiled to himself. "Hey, Gris, check it out - I got residue on the perp's shirt." His voice shook Sara from her trance, her eyes widening as she watched Grissom cross the room. He leaned over the opposite end of the table, magnifying glass in hand, cocking his head as he adjusted for proper focus.  
  
After a moment he smiled, and then pulled back, standing up straight. "Nicely done, Warrick."  
  
There was suddenly a presence behind her - she could almost feel him breathing on her neck. Damn Nick. Damn him. Don't make this worse by speaking, please.  
  
"Hey, guys!"  
  
Damn. Him.  
  
They finally turned to look at the foursome in the doorway: Nick and his smugness; Sara and her nerves. Grissom eyed her for a moment, and then looked back at the shirt.  
  
Nick leaned against the opposite frame, pushing his elbow into Sara's shoulder. "Hey, Warrick - trace said they were done with that bullet and were asking for you."  
  
Warrick stood up from the table and stretched. "Oh, sweet. I'll be back, Grissom."  
  
Sara stared at Nick, incredulous, and tried to mouth, "You asshole" in the subtlest way possible. He just grinned.  
  
Warrick brushed by both of them and strolled off down the hall. Nick walked back about ten feet, and then rested his shoulder against the wall. He shot Sara another grin and gave her a "Go on" gesture with his head.  
  
She turned away from the pest in the hallway until she was facing the room again. Facing. . . him. Grissom was now perched on a stool, watching her with the blankest of expressions. Her mouth tried to cover up the anxiety. First it smiled, then it spoke. "Hey."  
  
Grissom's shoulders relaxed a bit. "Hi."  
  
Sara could feel Nick's stare on her face, so she stepped further into the room, out of his line of sight. "So how's it going?" she forced out, much louder than necessary.  
  
"Fine. . ." Grissom eyed her suspiciously, glancing around the room. "Why are you shouting?"  
  
She immediately shrugged, and honestly, she didn't know why. Well, maybe it was for Nick's benefit. Maybe to bore him so he'd go away and leave her alone and forget this entire stupid bet that really left nothing for her to gain except more humiliation and two-hundred fifty dollars worth of debt, debt to an arrogant little sh-  
  
"Sara?"  
  
She blinked, realizing she'd been staring at Grissom for the last two minutes. "Sorry. . . I was just thinking. . ." She laughed and shook her head, trying to dislodge a plan for getting out of this.  
  
Grissom raised an eyebrow and then bent over the table, squinting at the shirt's fabric through his magnifying glass. As far as she could tell, their conversation was over. Sara crossed her arms and leaned back on her heels, ready to retreat and just pay the goddamn money.  
  
"You were just thinking what?" When another moment passed, and she still hadn't answered, he gazed up over the rims of his glasses. She looked bewildered, so he asked again. "What were you thinking?"  
  
Oh, think, think, think, think, think. THINK. There's got to be something. What did he know about that she didn't know about? Besides bugs. Something unrelated to CSI. Something that *could* be construed by Nick as a date but it didn't really have to be one officially. . .  
  
"I can't cook," she blurted out.  
  
Grissom finally stood up straight, his face caught somewhere between confusion and curiosity as he tried to figure out what the heck was going on. This was possibly the strangest conversation they'd ever had.  
  
"I. . . uh. . ." Why wouldn't her mouth just cooperate? "Um. . . I. . ." Spit it out! "Could you teach me?" It felt like someone was kicking her in the stomach.  
  
Grissom blinked, mentally leaning more toward confusion. "Now?"  
  
She suddenly laughed and shook her head, startling him as she filled the air with a full-blown guffaw that was two-thirds embarrassment and one- third amusement trying to cover up embarrassment. "Actually," she continued, still on some sort of delusional high from the intensity of her laugh, "I was thinking maybe you could come over after shift and show me a few things."  
  
And there it was.  
  
Crap.  
  
He blinked again. "Oh." And then he tilted his head slightly, considering the offer. He followed a small shrug with, "Okay."  
  
Obviously more shaken by this situation than Grissom, Sara gaped for a brief moment before being able to form a reply. "Around ten, then?"  
  
Caught in the whirlwind of what had just occurred, she suddenly wanted nothing more than leave. Now. But as she started to back out, he called after her.  
  
"Sara - what do you want to learn how to make?"  
  
She shoved her hands in her back pockets, rocking on her heels. Suddenly an answer hit her, and she tried to act excited. "Surprise me!" And with that, she left, leaving Grissom with his magnifying glass and furrowed brow, straining to comprehend what had just happened.  
  
Out in the hall, Nick almost looked like he had fallen asleep. Sara crossed her arms, trying to steady the anxiety-riddled aftermath flowing through her limbs. She licked her lips and tried her best at a smug grin.  
  
"I think someone owes me some money."  
  
He pulled himself off the wall and stepped closer to her. "You know the rules, Sidle. Payment delivered upon completion of the bet."  
  
"The bet was asking someone out."  
  
He narrowed his eyes and tipped his head back to look down at her, trying his best not to look beaten. "Well," he sighed heavily. "I don't have it on me right now."  
  
"Oh, you are so pathetic, Stokes," she playfully growled as she headed off down the hall. "Write me a check before you leave. . ."  
  
**  
  
Maybe this was the first sign of Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder. She wondered briefly if her insurance covered psychiatric treatment as she stood in the middle of her living room, staring intensely at anything not on a shelf, in a drawer, or in a neatened pile of some kind. She bent over to straighten a magazine lying on her coffee table and then resisted the urge to make it perpendicular to the edge of the wood. It'll look like someone actually lives here if things are just . . . left alone. Leave it where it landed when it was dropped after being read. Maybe open the curtains, let in a little light. Light is good. It makes this place look less. . . dead. At least it might seem like someone who actually sees sunlight lives here. Just check to see that the bed is made. Why? Will any time this morning be spent in the bedroom?  
  
Enough of that. What about this bet? He'll find out. Someone will find out, and tell him. Or he'll know. He knows everything, how would something like this elude him? He'll be hurt when he discovers why he's here. Tell him why he's *really* here, though -- tell him that it took a bet to instigate something that should have happened on its own, but was encumbered by selfishness, procrastination, and fear. Oh, yes, especially fear. Trepidation. Apprehension. That vast, mysterious void. The puzzle to end all puzzles. Know it. Understand it. Try not to be governed by it. Try.  
  
Before she could continue in her abstract reverie, there was a quiet knock at the door, three muffled taps that seemed to reverberate through the apartment like a gong in an iron-walled room. She spun around, her socks sliding effortlessly over the wood. As her teeth found her lower lip, her hands found her back pockets, and she slowly padded over to the door. Why she even bothered to look through the peephole, she didn't know.  
  
Judging from the lack of distortion through the tiny opening, he was standing two feet away from the door. A brown grocery bag was perched on one arm, and the other one leaned against the doorframe. A dark blue polo was tucked into his jeans. Jeans? Well, she was casual, too, at least. Comfortable. A muscle in her neck twitched at the thought of both of them, comfortable. Together.  
  
After a moment he licked his lips, and then looked like he was going to knock again. That's when she started on the locks, switching this bolt and unlatching that one, sliding a bar here, rotating a lever-tumbler there, moving downward until she had cracked the code of her substantial security system. Ironically, the most difficult part was gripping the knob in her sweaty palm to open the door.  
  
The hinges creaked slightly as the door swung open. They regarded each other for a moment, their minds both blank and overwhelmed at once. What was the big deal, anyway? She didn't want to answer that.  
  
"Hey."  
  
A tiny smile pulled at his mouth. "Hi." And then he shifted the bag in his arms and tilted his head toward the kitchen. "It would probably be easier in there."  
  
Finally shrugging off the mental cloud, she grinned and stepped aside so he could enter. She watched as he quickly surveyed her living room, and wondered what he would try to remember, if anything at all.  
  
"You have a lot of books," he noted unequivocally. She nodded in agreement. "That's always a good sign," he continued, getting a raised eyebrow from her in return.  
  
"Of what?"  
  
Grissom stared at her for a moment, his eyes unreadable as usual. "A good cook." He left her with that inscrutable comment as he set the bag down on the counter and began to empty the contents. She went to stand on the opposite side of the counter island, and leaned down onto her elbows, enjoying watching him. His hands were especially fascinating to her, as they flexed and relaxed and floated in and out of the paper bag with an ease so unlike what she expected.  
  
She didn't know much about being a chef, only that she'd read somewhere how sex and cooking were closely linked because of their stimulating effects on the senses, among other things. Despite the domesticity that she assigned to the act of cooking, something about watching a man who clearly knew what he was doing was undeniably sexy. Somewhere in the buzzing of her brain she realized she was getting turned on by watching Grissom handle the ingredients, so she stood up and cleared her mind the best she could.  
  
"You know. . ." His voice was soft, gentle. She'd heard it before, when he'd respond to her expressed curiosity in something he liked. "Cooking is a science. You could even equate it to forensics."  
  
She smirked, and picked up a bottle of olive oil.  
  
"Specific ingredients yield specific results," he continued, as he placed a bag of flour on the counter. "But while we're not allowed to play with those ingredients at work. . . in cooking we're free to discover what works best for our tastes."  
  
She scanned the countertop, trying to take in all the packets and cans and plastic bags full of unidentifiable contents. "So what are you making?"  
  
He raised an eyebrow. "Well, *we*. . ." He paused for emphasis, making eye contact with her. ". . .are making . . . pizza."  
  
She laughed. "Pizza? You're kidding."  
  
He almost looked hurt. "No." She quickly hid her smile. "Sara, you can learn a lot about cooking from dough." He grabbed the bag of flour. "How to mix, how to knead, how to correctly pour flour so it doesn't cloud up a room." They both smiled. Oh, she'd done that too many times. "But, more importantly, cooking teaches you how to be patient."  
  
There was that smile of hers. "Ah. No wonder I don't cook. That's the key, is it?"  
  
"Absolutely. Patience and. . ." He reached one more time into the bag, withdrawing two aprons, one red and one white. ". . .Protection." Wow, he was really getting into this. He held out his hands. "Pick one."  
  
Thinking for a moment, she took the red one, and slipped it over her head. It was only when she went to tie it that she saw the writing on the front. "'Chefs do it with good taste,'" she read aloud, following it with an exasperated sigh. He smirked slightly, sliding the white apron over his head. His read, simply: Chef.  
  
When he had finished tying his apron around his waist, he raised an eyebrow and rubbed his hands together. "You ready?"  
  
"Sure." She shrugged apprehensively, and then watched as he suddenly approached her. Stepping back a few feet, she realized he was headed to the sink, and relaxed slightly.  
  
They stood side-by-side at the faucet, trying to wash their hands at the same time. Again entranced by his hands, she watched the fusion of tendons, fingers, and soap, sliding over each other in harmonious motion. Once or twice he caught her lost in thought, and nudged her with his elbow.  
  
For the next minute or so he ravaged her cabinets, pulling out all the bowls he could find; all the measuring cups and whisks had come from his bag.  
  
He moved back to the counter, standing slightly behind her so she could examine the ingredients. "Alright," he began, pointing to a bag at the end of the counter, his arm brushing the back of her shoulder. "We've got all- purpose flour. . . some dry yeast. . . olive oil, sugar and salt."  
  
She looked over to him, a little taken aback by how close he was standing. "That's it?"  
  
A tiny smirk crossed his lips. "That's all we need." To break apart the quickly growing awkwardness, he continued. "Okay, take the big bowl there and dump in about 2 cups of water and about 2 tablespoons of the yeast."  
  
"Me?" She blurted out. He nodded. "Grissom, I-"  
  
"There's a first time for everything, Sara. . ." his voice trailed off as he was caught up in her stare for the thousandth time. Then he picked up the bowl and handed it to her. "Here. Take the bowl."  
  
She tried to pout, but there was too much smile trying to creep through, so she playfully snatched the bowl from his hands and measured the yeast in a spoon before dumping it in with the water.  
  
He handed her the whisk. "Okay, now mix them together." He watched as she eventually got the rhythm of beating the ingredients into a smoothly textured mixture. Every so often he couldn't help but glance at the smirk on her face; she was enjoying this.  
  
When she had mixed for what she felt was enough time, she glanced back at him. She knew he'd been watching. Without a word, he reached around her and picked up the salt and sugar, and then slid the two bags of flour over to her.  
  
"See how the yeast is kind of foaming? The temperature of the water activates it." She nodded in response. "It's time to add the other stuff. About two teaspoons of salt. . ." He watched as she measured each ingredient. "And about three cups of flour."  
  
Suddenly, she turned to him. "All this 'about,' Grissom - there's no accuracy for you?"  
  
His eyebrow reached up toward his hairline. "It's not about accuracy, Sara. Cooking isn't an exact science. It's like speaking a language, almost. Every chef has their own accent, so to speak."  
  
"And what's yours?" she grinned.  
  
His tongue wandered out between his lips as he thought of a response. "Latin, of course."  
  
"Latin's not an accent."  
  
He sighed and cocked his head toward the bowl. "Mix."  
  
She smirked and turned back to the bag of all-purpose flour, prepared to open the top. "This is the part where I always. . ." She fumbled with the paper flaps, straining to open them. As if on cue, the top of the bag flung open and flour dust suddenly spewed forth like a powdery volcano.  
  
Sara moved back instinctively, stepping right into Grissom, who had shifted behind her. He steadied her, placing his hands on her waist, and tried not to laugh as he heard her curse loudly under her breath.  
  
His grip on her waist tightened as he felt her slightly lean back into him, and as she gazed over her shoulder, their eyes met. "Don't laugh, Grissom. . ." she warned playfully, breaking the silence.  
  
He pursed his lips, trying to hide the smile, and then reached up and brushed her nose with his index finger. He pulled it back and presented the evidence: flour. Feeling her cheeks redden, she directed her eyes back to the counter in front of her, where she finally poured in the flour - slowly, of course - and started to mix it into the rest of the concoction.  
  
When the mixture had started to form what closely resembled dough, he put a hand on the whisk to stop her. "Now comes the fun part," he waggled his eyebrows and took the whisk from her hands, placing it on the counter. "Go ahead and stick your hands in there and knead it."  
  
"Knead?"  
  
"Yeah, knead." He motioned with his hands.  
  
She sighed and reluctantly stuck her hands into the bowl. He quickly realized her version of kneading was to make as little contact with the dough as possible, so he reached an arm around each side of her and shoved his hands into the bowl.  
  
The sudden sensations of him pressed against her and of his hands on hers were startling, and she almost leaped over the counter in surprise. He gently took her hands in his and started to massage the dough, his fingers overlapping hers as he demonstrated his version of kneading.  
  
She really tried to concentrate on what he was showing her, but her mind was focused on his fingers rubbing her own, his body pressed against hers, and the intense scent of Grissom intermingled with flour and yeast. Her whole body sighed as his hands gripped hers, and she couldn't even tell if they were still in the process of kneading, or just enjoying the feel of their hands against each other.  
  
When he spoke, she could feel the waves of warmth as they floated out of his mouth to tickle the skin of her ears. "Feel how it's starting to behave more like dough?" She tried her best to nod. "We want to stop kneading while it's still soft, otherwise we'll be eating chewing gum later," he explained.  
  
The heat building up inside of her was becoming overwhelming, and just when she thought she might actually burst from the power of the inferno, he let go of her hands and moved from behind to next to her. She let out a long, shaky breath, hoping he didn't notice how red her cheeks were.  
  
"If you think you can handle it," he sighed, "Sprinkle some flour on the counter there." She shot him an evil eye, and he winked in return. Reaching into the bag, she did as she was told. "Now form the dough into a ball, and then put it on the counter. . ."  
  
Once she placed the dough on the surface, he covered it with a damp cloth and looked over at Sara. She waited for him to say something, and when he didn't, asked, "Now what?"  
  
"Well, we let this sit for an hour."  
  
She looked as if someone had just asked her to divide 37.0438 by 345,678. "An *hour*?"  
  
Why did he find her so amusing today? He smiled, and picked up the nearby egg timer, winding back the dial. "Remember: patience and protection. It's got to rise before we can do anything with it." After she responded with some form of a whimper, he continued, "Don't worry; it's time to make our toppings."  
  
She pursed her lips. "Super."  
  
Rolling his eyes, he turned toward the counter and handed her a can of tomatoes. "I usually use fresh tomatoes, but I was pressed for time at the store." She opened the can and then tried to give it back to him, but he held out another bowl instead. "Dump those in here, and I'll teach you how to press garlic."  
  
Grabbing the bowl, she dumped in the tomatoes. "And how does one press garlic?"  
  
He smirked. "With a garlic press." She shot him a dagger-filled glare. "Alright," he quickly added, offering his hands out peacefully. "We'll just do some spice work." He picked up a dishtowel to wipe some dough off his fingers.  
  
As she watched his hands for the hundredth time that morning, a familiar, nagging thought crossed her mind again. She suddenly put down the bowl, and a curious expression crossed her features. The pretend anger was gone, but so was the enjoyment she's shown him earlier. She almost seemed to wince as she spoke.  
  
"I have to tell you something."  
  
He thought at first she was talking about the cooking, how maybe she wasn't really having a good time, or that she wanted him to leave, or that she was maybe allergic to dough and was going to start developing hives soon, or that she once had a bad experience with pizza and she could never fully appreciate the -  
  
"Grissom, are you listening?"  
  
Blinking twice, he tore his eyes from the holes they were boring in the surface of her countertop. He leaned his against the island and met her solemn stare. "Yes."  
  
"I have to tell you why you're really here." With each word she seemed to step closer to him, perhaps unconsciously, or maybe because she knew the words would hurt and wanted to somehow try and neutralize the pain with physical closeness. She really didn't know.  
  
He simply looked confused, and blinked again. "I'm. . . not here to teach you how to make pizza?"  
  
Throwing back her head, she let out a small laugh. "No. . . no, you are. But. . .the reason you're here is because I asked you. . ."  
  
He nodded, trying to follow.  
  
"And the reason I asked you. . . is because. . ." With that, she trailed off and sighed, not knowing how to continue.  
  
Thinking she just wasn't ever going to finish that sentence, he finally spoke. "I don't get it."  
  
"Nick bet me that I couldn't ask you out." Jesus. Just. . . blurt it out, Sara. Like ripping off a band-aid, right?  
  
"Oh."  
  
She tried to tell him with her eyes that she was glad Nick had made her do it, but he wasn't looking at her. He was scanning the counter, looking at their work, at all the leftover ingredients scattered around in their own containers, and in one big, doughy hunk on the countertop. All he could hear was a whooshing in his ears and the faint ticking of the egg timer.  
  
And then, he gently placed the dishtowel on the counter and undid his apron, sliding it over his head before she could stop him.  
  
Shit. He was more embarrassed than she was.  
  
"I think I should go."  
  
"No, Grissom," she pleaded, trying not to sound as desperate as she was. With a few more steps, she stood right in front of him, essentially pinning him into a corner against the counter. "Don't go."  
  
When she refused to move out of his way he sighed heavily and finally looked at her. The hurt was there in his eyes, peeking out behind all the other clouded emotions he hid so well. He tried to put on his happy face. "Hey, I'm glad you won your bet." He pushed lightly on the arm blocking his path. "Please. . . let me leave." But she wouldn't budge. "Sara. . ."  
  
"I'm sorry I made the bet, Grissom," she replied, staring him down. "It was stupid, and I'm sorry." He twisted his mouth in an attempt to disguise the pain, and sustained their mutual gaze as she continued, "But I'm not sorry you're here. Please don't go."  
  
When he met her eyes again, the hurt had turned to an anger she had only seen a few times before. Instinctively, she backed down, but still didn't allow him to pass. The pain swelling in her stomach started pouring into her heart with staggering frequency. It was suffocating. She wanted to curl up into a ball and never do another thing as long as she lived. He wasn't just hurt and angry; he was hurt and angry because of her.  
  
She could barely get the words out her voice was so strained. "I'm so sorry."  
  
The muscles in his cheek flexed as he let out a deep breath through his nose, and he looked everywhere but at her. He tried again to move past her, and she again blocked his path. This time, her hand stayed on his arm, holding him where the elbow joined the bicep. She could feel the muscles working beneath the surface, the tension straining against her grip. If it were possible, that same sensation was visible in his stare, and now it seemed he couldn't look anywhere but at her. He didn't even seem to blink.  
  
She tried desperately to hold him there, but his arm was tensing so badly it was becoming increasingly difficult to keep her grip. When she loosened it just slightly, he seized the opportunity and lunged past her again, but she was still too fast and he just ended up careening right into her. The impact would have flattened her, but she frantically grabbed onto him to steady herself, resulting in a kind of quasi-embrace on her end.  
  
They stood there, frozen in that strange tangle of arms and emotions, the seconds ticking past like what seemed to be hours. All his hurt and pain seemed to be building up inside him, morphing slowly into a thunderous ball of energy, a raging bull of emotion ready to burst forth from the gate. She, in turn, was lost somewhere in the azure perplexity of his eyes, searching desperately for any kind of indication that he would somehow be able to forgive her.  
  
Without even a second to realize what was happening, he felt her hands on his cheeks, and then, just as suddenly, her lips were on his. He was only able to stave off the urge to touch her for a few milliseconds more, and before he knew it, his arms were wrapped around her, bringing their bodies together with an overwhelming warmth and softness.  
  
Well, this was unexpected. Unexpected. . . but not unwanted. Arms wrapped around bodies, lips suckled lips, tips of tongues flicked against each other, the contact coaxing possibility from the mind while deliciously teasing the appetite of desire.  
  
So this was what it was like to kiss him. To be close enough to taste and feel and smell everything that made this man Grissom. His breath. His chest rising and falling with the rhythm of the kiss. The way he spoke without words as his lips touched hers. The subtle seduction performed by his hands, this time unseen, as their heat bled through fabric to warm small patches of skin before moving delicately over nape and scalp. The texture of his hair entwined in her hands, the curls naturally spiraling around the firmness of knuckles and the tapered flesh of fingers. So this was what it was like to kiss him.  
  
As the rhythm of their mouths eventually slowed, their lips reluctantly separated, swollen and reddened. They stayed close, breathing against each other, eyes still shut, hands still gripping fabric and flesh. Their brains buzzed euphorically, the sensation not unlike inebriation. There was the blissful aftermath as nerve endings tingled and synapses recovered from overuse, and then the shock and realization of what had just occurred. The two emotions nearly neutralized each other, and as Grissom and Sara's eyes met for the first time since their kiss, the aftermath eventually won over as the preferred sensation. She unraveled her fingers from his hair and wrapped her arms around his waist, resting her chin on his shoulder.  
  
She felt warmth against her ear when he spoke. "Apology accepted," he whispered, still trying to catch his breath.  
  
She chuckled and pulled back to look at him. His eyes now just a curious mixture of confusion and arousal, he almost seemed slightly embarrassed at what they'd just done. Disturbed by the silence he asked the only thing he could process at the moment. "So. . . just how much did you win, anyway?"  
  
Her eyes fell downward as a blush colored her cheeks. "Two fifty."  
  
"Two fifty? That's it?"  
  
"Two *hundred* and fifty, Grissom."  
  
"Oh."  
  
"I know. . . I should have asked for more. . ." One corner of her mouth raised simultaneously with an eyebrow.  
  
His jaw dropped slightly, and she leaned forward to give him a light kiss. When she found his eyes again, she suddenly stepped back a few feet. Within the mysterious blue was a mischievous she had never seen before, at least in this context. What was he -?  
  
The whiteness seemed to fly at her from everywhere, and she flailed her arms around, fanning the powder from her eyes. "Grissom!" She barely got his name out before another handful of flour sprayed over her face.  
  
This was war. Completely shocked but still alert enough to respond, she shoved her hand into the bag and hurled the flour at him, giggling the entire time. The powder rained down onto his hair as he tried, unsuccessfully, to duck out of the way. He was laughing now, too, and tossed a huge handful at her as she tried to run away. She ended up crouching on the other side of the counter, which was technically in the living room, and strategically threw tiny little flour bombs at him every few seconds.  
  
When it had been almost a full minute without an attack, she peered up over the countertop. Grissom was nowhere to be seen. She frowned, and crawled around to the kitchen side again. By the time she crossed from hardwood floor to linoleum, it was too late. A white mass obscured her vision, and she was suddenly pinned to the floor, squealing for help as she tried to subdue the laughter.  
  
When she could finally see again, he was inches above her, his hands holding her arms to the floor. His hair was speckled with tiny bits of flour, and even his eyelashes had managed to capture a few flecks. She was much worse off, and he grinned at his handiwork. Her whole face was white, and the top of her hair was highlighted with clumps of flour.  
  
His grip relaxed, and he suddenly leaned forward, planting a kiss square on her lips. Before he could raise himself back, up she slipped out of his grip and pulled him back down on top of her, deepening the contact.  
  
It had never been like this before. Each touch seemed more intense and electrifying than the last, and even with the lingering scent and flavor of flour, the way he felt and tasted was so amazing that it simply didn't matter where they were or what they were doing. This moment could last forever for all she cared. If they never went back to work, and all they ever did was stay on this kitchen floor, their lips entwined, his arms -  
  
What was that, an alarm? The phone? Someone's pager? Oh, yeah, the egg timer. Quite the mood-breaker. Had it been an hour already? He was still kissing her, though - didn't he hear it? She smiled against his mouth until he finally broke the contact to look at her. Then he heard the ringing, and laughed. He groaned as he stood up, and then put his hand out, helping her off the floor. He turned off the timer and they both stared at the countertop.  
  
"Wow," she offered, gazing at the ball of dough, now nearly twice its size.  
  
"Oh, good - it worked." He gave her a small wink. "Now, do you want to flatten it out or should I?"  
  
The question was actually processed in her mind, and she did consider answering it, but she decided on another focus. She leaned against the counter and scanned his body with her eyes. "No offense, Grissom, but I think you should know I don't give a damn about this pizza right now."  
  
At first he looked slightly insulted, and then comprehension washed over his face. "Oh," he said, his eyes widening as she moved closer to him.  
  
Her lips had barely touched his when he felt it. The vibration fluttered across his stomach like a herd of scurrying insects, and for a second or two he thought he actually heard it as well. A buzzing of some kind. It was rhythmic, too, coming in short bursts of a few seconds.  
  
"Grissom," she breathed against his mouth. "I think your pager is going off."  
  
He sighed heavily and finally pulled the buzzing plastic from his belt. Gazing at the display he sighed again. "Damn. I've got to go. It's a 911 from Brass."  
  
Sara nodded and stepped back, allowing him to move into the living room. As she watched him put on his shoes, a sudden embarrassment washed over her, and she bit her lip, trying to stay as calm as possible.  
  
He ran his fingers through his hair and brushed at his shirt, bits of flour falling to the floor. When he stood back up he saw Sara staring at him, and on his way to the door he stopped and leaned against the counter. She was suddenly having a hard time looking at him.  
  
"You know. . ." He drifted off, not sure of what exactly to say. He wished it didn't have to be so awkward. And then a grin formed on his lips, and he nodded toward the dough. "Put that in the refrigerator."  
  
She had been expecting a different kind of goodbye, the one he had almost given her, and she almost physically shook herself from the trance. "Huh?"  
  
"The dough. Put it in the fridge. You can keep it in there overnight and cook it the next day."  
  
"Oh." She nodded. Her eyes were still trying their best to avoid his.  
  
Finally, he walked to the door, put his hand on the knob, and then paused, turning to her. "Tomorrow, I'll remember to bring fresh tomatoes."  
  
Her head snapped up just in time to see a flash of his smile before the door closed behind him. After several moments of shock, she finally smirked to herself, and then turned back to her flour-covered kitchen.  
  
(fin.) 


End file.
